


the minute i met you (the colors of my life began to pour)

by wesawbears



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesawbears/pseuds/wesawbears
Summary: "The difficulty with loving Geralt was that it made him aware of how people treated his witcher. He knew the butcher comment he’d made had hit a nerve, but seeing people turning Geralt away with a sneer or worse, all for something that wasn’t his fault, made Jaskier’s blood boil."Jaskier is determined to know what happened at Blaviken, from Geralt's side. He knows it's no easy task, but Jaskier chose to believe that there were no impossible tasks, only tasks that hadn't met Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 318
Collections: Best Geralt





	the minute i met you (the colors of my life began to pour)

**Author's Note:**

> This is based entirely on the show canon; I know the events are potentially more ambiguous in the books, but I'm working with what I know. All typos are mine.

Jaskier knew that he was trusting by nature, possibly too trusting. He remembered his mother scolding him, telling him that one day some scoundrel was bound to steal him away and that he would be fool enough to walk off with them. He chuckled at the memory, wondering what she’d think of him fulfilling that prophecy, with a witcher no less. Tales of his exploits had doubtless reached home by now. He’d been singing about Geralt and their adventures for...two years now? Yes, that sounded right, though it felt longer.

He’d heard of witchers in his childhood, been fascinated by them as he had by all stories of the fantastic. Nothing could have prepared him for the real thing though. Being with Geralt was much how he imagined domesticating a feral cat might be. It had taken time, patience, and few gut punches, but he knew Geralt cared for him more than he let on, allowed Jaskier indulgences he didn’t show others. Like giving him the better cuts of the game he caught, or gruffly handing him his cloak when he saw Jaskier shiver. And, recently, he’d even made his way into the witcher’s bed, discovering how surprisingly tender his wolf could be.

It wasn’t surprising, then, that Jaskier had managed to fall in love with him. What was surprising was the fact that two years and a winter apart later, Jaskier still wanted him just as badly as he had that first day in Posada. The difference was, in Posada, he’d just seen a story and a body, albeit a very pleasing one to look at. Now, though, he’d gotten to know the mind and heart inside that body and found himself hurtling over an emotional cliff.

The difficulty with loving Geralt was that it made him aware of how people treated his witcher. He knew the butcher comment he’d made had hit a nerve, but seeing people turning Geralt away with a sneer or worse, all for something that wasn’t his fault, made Jaskier’s blood boil. He hadn’t chosen to become a witcher. And even if he had, it was no reason to hate him. The same people that spat at him when he passed, or ushered their children inside at the sight of him, were at his heels demanding he risk his life protecting them.

Jaskier had at least noticed that the ill treatment had lessened since his songs started spreading the continent, but every so often they would came across a town unimpressed by the stories. Jaskier wanted to scream and fight and them all what ungrateful shits they were, but Geralt always stopped him before he could.

“Easy, bard,” he would say and Jaskier would huff and deflate. It was terribly frustrating, loving someone who didn’t want to be defended, or didn’t think themself worthy of being defended.

Luckily, Jaskier was persistent in his passions, and not easily deterred once he had a goal. He waited to bring it up, though, until he’d seen Geralt suitably relaxed, one orgasm down and (hopefully) more to come, if Jaskier played his cards right. This wasn’t for him, though. This was about Geralt. 

He ran his hand absently through the hair on Geralt’s chest, over the familiar map of scars that littered his torso. Jaskier had been there for some of the scars and been told about others, though he’s sure it would end up being his life’s work telling of them all. Geralt wasn’t terribly descriptive, but Jaskier could embellish well enough. Geralt would roll his eyes no matter if he was truthful or not, so what did the details matter as long as it opened doors for them? This story, though, he wanted exactly right. Not for any song, but to know once and for all why Geralt flinched when he heard the name “butcher”, why he took every comment on like it was his burden to bear. Why Jaskier defending him seemed to hurt him worse than any abuse.

He moved his hand down to where he knew a scar lay, high on his thigh. “Maybe this one tonight?”

Geralt huffed and shifted away. “Maybe not.”

Jaskier put on his best pout. “Come on. At least tell me what did it? I can work with that.”

Geralt growled at that, but Jaskier knew the man’s bark was worse than his bite and simply propped himself up on an elbow. “It’s from Blaviken, then, isn’t it?”

Geralt said nothing, so Jaskier continued. “I’m right, then.”

“Leave it, Jaskier.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

Jaskier scoffed. “How am I supposed to help rehabilitate your image if I don’t even know what I’m rehabilitating?”

“I never asked you to.”

“You’re right. It must be terribly taxing to have a bed to sleep in occasionally and new armor. What a blight I’ve been on your existence.” He was baiting him, he knew, but it was the only way to get anything out of Geralt sometimes.

Geralt huffed again, but didn’t answer, so Jaskier moved to place a hand on his shoulder, trying the honeyed approach. When the bigger man didn’t push him way, he took that as permission to continue. “I’m not asking because I want to sing about it. Truly.”

Geralt grunted unhelpfully, so Jaskier kept going. “I just want to know what happened.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about you? And about the truth.”

“You’ve heard the story.”

Jaskier snorted. “That you walked into a town and killed seven people in cold blood? I’ve heard it. I also think it’s probably crap. I want your version.”

Geralt turned then, golden eyes flashing. “Why? Why do you give a shit? So you can have the exclusive story?”

Jaskier stared back, refusing to be cowed. “Because you’re my friend, and I know you wouldn't have done what you did without a good reason.”

Geralt deflated a bit. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.”

Geralt looked as close to stricken as Jaskier had ever seen him, so took his face in one of his hands, noting how Geralt tried to drop his gaze, but didn’t wrench away. “I killed them. All of them. I didn’t have to. I chose to.”

“Why?”

“I wanted...I don’t know. I thought I could stop her.”

Jaskier nodded and moved to take Geralt’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together after a moment. At Geralt’s quizzical look, he said, “Just hold my hand for a bit. And talk to me.”

Geralt told the story in his taciturn way. It killed Jaskier to not know every detail, but he wasn’t going to ask, not for this. He wasn’t asking for himself. He was asking because he knew how lonely it was to have a story that no one knew but you, that no one cared to ask for. He thought, if nothing else, that it might be a comfort to Geralt to know that someone else knew his side of what had happened.

When Geralt finished, Jaskier nodded. “Stregobor sounds like a dick.”

He was relieved when Geralt laughed a little. “He is.”

“He’s still alive?” When Geralt nodded, Jaskier continued, “If we ever meet him, I’ll throw a rock at his head. See how he likes it.”

“You will not.”

Jaskier huffed. “Fine. I won’t. But only because of how deeply I care for you.”

Geralt grunted, his words for the day clearly exhausted, and Jaskier caught him gently by the elbow before he could turn away. “I mean it! Thank you for telling me.”

He took Geralt’s hand again and kissed his palm. The look Geralt gives him is impossibly soft, and Jaskier wanted to hurt every person who ever made his darling wolf feel like he didn’t deserve to be cared for.

Geralt shook his head. “Go to sleep, little lark.”

Jaskier beamed, knowing Geralt only called him that when he was being especially fond. He wrapped his arm around Geralt, happy to cling to his back, hands clasped together around his front. He would protect his wolf, just as Geralt protected them. For him, he would be as fierce as any creature.


End file.
